


The Wolfhearts

by Row93



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original Fiction, Wolves, city, power
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Row93/pseuds/Row93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brannon and Róshalyn have a powerful and deadly secret. They're Wolfhearts, part of an ancient and extinct race. For a long time they've managed to keep this a secret, but their own recklessness has set new events in motion. Their gift now puts them and others in danger, as someone powerful is scouring their city to find them and to use their gift for his own dark agenda. (Original work)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first version of the prologue I've written for a story that I've just begun to write. This is my first ever try at original fiction so feedback is really appreciated. Let me know if it's interesting enough to keep reading!

Pain. That's the last thing he remembers. Noise, lights, panic, but mostly pain. And then...nothing. Like a heavy wet blanket lying on top of his consciousness that makes everything feel slow and sluggish. That makes it feel like moving or even thinking is too much effort. And worse, makes all his memories seem unreachable except the one where he felt such pain. The edges of his mind feel blurred and he feels like he's drifting on a cloud. A small part of his consciousness tries to tell him that this feeling is wrong. That it's not natural, to feel this powerless and lost. So he tries to concentrate but his thoughts remain cloudy and far away.

Except for one thought. One tiny sliver of memory that somehow filters through the heaviness.  A name. _His_ name. Brannon. He has a name and its Brannon. But something's wrong. Like something about the name is missing. A part of it; a part of him that that's not entirely him.

And there's more. A voice that creeps into his head and makes a way through his jumbled memories, feelings and thoughts that are too far away for him to grasp. A calm voice that seems to create some order in his unwanted chaos for a second. In his whirlpool of things he doesn't understand.

"Wolfheart." says the voice that has taken the sound of a woman's voice.

What is the voice of a woman doing in his head? Furthermore, what is she talking about? They are just more questions that float away unanswered.

"They believe that thousands of years ago there were more kinds of people walking this planet than just humans."

Slowly he begins to understand that the voice is not coming from his head but from outside. But whose is it? Why is she speaking to him? It makes him feel relieved and more confused at the same time. Relieved because it means he might not be going crazy, although confused because he’s unable to grasp what the voice is talking about. So he tries to concentrate once more on getting his mind together.

"They don't know the half of it." a soft laugh that sounds more like a choked sob

And then it's like the mist in his head is lifting somewhat and his thoughts finally take solid shapes again. He feels that he's nearing the surface of whatever depths he was lost in. The whirlpool of feelings makes place for a constant dull pain that seems a far echo from the sharp pain that he first remembered.

"I'm sorry," for a moment he imagines soft lips pressing against his forehead, "this is for your own protection."

Then the sound of a book being closed. He attempts to open his eyes, but by the time he has gathered enough strength for it the voice has disappeared and he knows that the owner of it has gone.

Finally, Brannon opens his eyes. As the he blinks away the haze of deep sleep he notices rows of wooden beds with white sheets and the smell of alcohol. He’s in the House of Healing, in a desolate, lonely ward. With the help of the last sunlight filtering through the high darkened windows he realizes that the mysterious woman from his fading dream is nowhere to be found.

But was it a dream?

Now he recognizes the heavy feeling as drugs. Medicines whose only purpose it is to keep him asleep and dull his pain. But why? Where is the pain coming from that seemed so sharp in his dream but is nothing more than a dull sensation at the moment? The effort it takes to think still costs too much energy for him and to Brannon's annoyance his eyelids are feeling too heavy to keep them open any longer. Once again he feels the mist tugging at the edges of his consciousness and this time he doesn't fight it. This time he lets himself sink into it completely.


	2. Part 1 - Chapter 1

It's not the first time Brannon has trouble removing himself from the clutches of sleep and strange dreams. For several nights now he's been waking up more exhausted than before going to sleep. And a for long time after waking he's unable to shake the unnatural feeling of what he sees in his dreams. Like his mind is unwilling to let him forget what he experiences during the night. The feeling of being followed by wolves with eyes that look too human. Images that keep scratching at his consciousness, even during his waking hours.

It's also not the first time Brannon has been dreaming of wolves. They seem to be the constant subject of his subconscious lately. And the way they look at him with an intelligence that shouldn't be possible for mere animals is somewhat starting to scare him.

But they are just dreams, and he refuses to let them consume his mind completely. During the day, there is work to do. And nothing of what he sees at night is an excuse not to face the day. Honestly, he will seize any opportunity to keep his thoughts occupied. Even though he despises the work he's forced to do day in day out.

With a deep sigh Brannon hauls himself out of his rickety old bed. Every day it takes him more effort than the day before to get up and face the heat of smithy downstairs. He wasn't made to be kept inside. All his senses revolt against the small, dark and hot space of the smith. He doesn't know where it's coming from, he just knows that he won't be able to hold out for much longer.

Clayton, the old blacksmith he works for, is not going to be grateful for that. Not after all the trouble the man has gone through to teach him the first steps of becoming a blacksmith, something many will never have the opportunity for. Clayton could have gotten any apprentice, but for some reason he chose Brannon. Someone who does not have the slightest bit of talent for it and least of all a wish to become a blacksmith.

But Brannon supposes that underneath all the swearing and gruff attitude Clayton does have a soft heart. Otherwise he would not have offered Brannon a chance to get off the streets on which he almost wound up again, being send away from the House of Healing.

A month later and Brannon still can't remember much, to his own aggravation. His memories are a jumbled mess of some pieces from his childhood and adolescent years, smells, and images. But that's all there is. He’s unable to remember anything from the moment he turned twenty-one. Only that there was some sort of accident and that someone brought him to the House of Healing because he couldn’t even remember his own name. Brain damage was the most likely conclusion. That is what the healers assumed.

But Clayton doesn’t need him for his memories or his brain, he needs him for the extra pair of hands. And if Brannon is not going to show up soon with that pair of hands he's in for another verbal lashing. Thus, he at least tries to make an effort to smoothen out his dark mop of sleep mussed hair, after splashing some cold water in his face. In the cracked mirror above his water basin he studies the bags under his eyes and the way his freckles stand out darkly against his pale skin for a moment, but there is nothing to be done about it. Only rest. And he's not getting any of that. Not with the dreams that keep haunting him.

His breakfast consists of bread and cheese and after that he makes his way into the smithy where Clayton is already waiting for him, impatience written all over his harsh features. The heat from the old furnaces hits Brannon like a wall, and he feels like it could scorch his eyebrows off. Just being in here makes his skin crawl, but he pushes the uncomfortable feeling away. Clayton doesn’t say anything about his lateness, either out of pity or because he doesn’t want a confrontation. Brannon suspects the latter. Clayton is not a man of many words, which suits him fine.

With nothing more than a grunt Brannon is handed a shovel and a rusty, steel bucket and inside he's relieved. Every few days new coal needs to be brought in from a shack behind the building. It’s heavy and exhausting work, but it’s mostly outside, where he doesn’t feel like suffocating all the time.

With grim determination Brannon gets to work. Filling bucket after bucket with the heavy coal and hauling it inside. The sun is half hidden behind the clouds, and there’s a chill in the air but still he's sweating profusely. Because the houses are closely build together in the Pipes the summer heat always seems to linger a bit longer here, before giving way to autumn.

Not like in the other parts of the city, like the Burrows, where the people are too poor to own houses with more than one floor. Or the Canals where the people are rich enough to have copious amounts of space between their tall town-homes. And the Heart of the City... where the houses are more like palaces. Where only the wealthiest and most influential people live.

But the Pipes are not that bad, Brannon muses as he breaths in fresh air, or as fresh as air can be in a crowded city like Ironheath. Here the streets are not as filled with beggars as opposed to the Burrows. And there are not as many shady alleys, where you’re surely to be robbed and might not even escape with your life.

Brannon's heart twists a little in his chest at the thought. From what he can remember he spend most of his life in the Burrows. And he most definitely remembers the pitiful conditions most people live in there. He’s also aware not a single person in the Canals or the Heart cares about it, even though it makes up the biggest part of the City. He wants to help those who have nothing. He's always wanted to help them. But how do you change something that has been rooted in so deep?

His musings are cut short by Clayton clearing his throat louder than necessary from inside the smithy and Brannon gets the message. No standing around, lost in thought. There is work to be done.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of hard work and straining muscles. When the clock tower at the square close by chimes once, Brannon is given a much needed break. Clayton tends to eat a lunch of more cheese and bread in the common room of the adjoined house, but Brannon prefers the threshold of the smithy. From there he can look out over the streets, observing people as they go about their daily business. He often wonders what is going on in their minds. If they think as much about their past and future as he does. If they feel as lost as he does. He assumes not. They all seem to know where they fit in. Or they pretend to fit in, because they have no other choice, he supposes, like himself.

“Bran!”

He doesn’t even notice that he’s nodding off until Clayton barks his name. Damn. He is so incredibly tired. If only sleep would come to him like this at night. But then he just tosses and turns. With his limbs feeling like lead Brannon gets up again. He has hauled in enough coal in the morning to last them for the next few days, so that means it’s back into the smouldering heat of the smithy to continue work there. Every fibre in his body is already revolting to the thought, but he goes back in anyway and he works hard in the afternoon, because it’s all he has. All he can grab onto for now. It’s his place where he needs to pretend to fit in, because he has no other choice.

Brannon is still cleaning out one of the old ovens when the sun is hanging low in the sky and Clayton puts downs his tools with a clang that makes it obvious he wants Brannon’s attention.

“I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Brannon wipes some sweat and sooth from his brow and looks up, eyebrows raised. Their usual communication consists of grunts and a few words of instruction every now and then when they are in the smithy. Not much more. This is an unusual development. He feels Clayton study him, taking in the gauntness of his face and his eyes that scream exhaustion. It makes him feel uncomfortable. Clayton has eyes that possess the ability to pierce your soul if he wants to. And Brannon feels like there is something inside him that he’s not ready to face yet. Something dark and secret.

So he just looks away, refusing to show how vulnerable he feels. While he waits for Clayton to explain he starts scrubbing his hands clean on a rag. Somehow the blacksmith seems disappointed by his lack of reaction, but Brannon can’t bring himself to care, so Clayton just plunges on.

“I need you to deliver some tools to a friend.”

“Where?”

“The Burrows.”

Brannon raises his head and his forest green eyes meet Clayton’s stormy grey ones. It’s the first time that the blacksmith has given him an errand to run that’s beyond the Pipes. An errand that will take him at least a few hours to carry out. It’s almost like…he pities Brannon. Like he sees through his mask of pretending that he’s fine and wants to give him some time to clear his head, away from the smithy. But Brannon doesn’t want his pity, even if he desperately needs to get some air and clear his mind.

Getting up he gives a simple nod of confirmation before making to move to his bedroom to change into clean clothes. But before he can leave the smithy, Clayton grabs his shoulder with a huge, callused hand and for a second all the hairs on the back of Brannon’s neck stand on end. He hasn’t been touched for a while and this makes him feel even more on edge. He turns and faces Clayton, his eyes narrowed in confusion. The air palpable with the tension between them. The blacksmith is a man of few words, and even less of physical contact.

“Just give it time.” the blacksmith says and for a moment it looks like he wants to say more, but Brannon gives him a lost look and Clayton removes his hand, looking like he made a mistake. Not really knowing what to do Brannon just shakes his head, his eyes filled with pain and walks out.

The man doesn’t understand. Doesn’t realize that it’s more than just his lost memories that bother him. That is just a part of his inner struggle. There’s also that hollow feeling that’s been aching deep inside ever since he woke up in the hospital. Like some part of him is missing, some part that isn’t completely his. It has something to do with the dreams, he can feel it. But his mind somehow keeps him from thinking too hard on it. It keeps slipping through his fingers, like a thought that is just out of reach. It’s wearing his patience thin and he can feel the tension build in his body.

“Damn it!” he snarls and in frustration Brannon punches the wall with all the strength he can muster. The dull sound of the blow reverberates through his arm and he pulls back, immediately ashamed of letting his temper slip. To his shock, the blow has left a crack in the stone but nothing more than a scrape on his knuckles. He stares at it for a few seconds, his eyes wide, before he throws a quick look over his shoulder, to check if Clayton saw or heard it, but the loud clanging from the smithy tells him that the blacksmith isn’t aware of what just occurred. With shaking hands Brannon traces the crack in the wall, a thousand thoughts going through his mind. The stone feels cold and rough under his fingers. Impossible. There… there is no way that he did that with his own strength, for sure? The stone must have been compromised already, he tells himself. A week spot in the wall. He releases a deep breath that he didn’t realise he was holding and takes a step back, holding his scraped hand with the other. Yes. In a house this old it’s probably nothing strange. It’s just an odd coincidence. He touches the crack one last time as if to make sure he believes his own words.

Then he walks away and tries to focus on the task that was given to him. But even as he’s switching his dirty shirt for a clean one in his small bedroom, he can’t let it go. As he walks down again he keeps his eyes forward. Not daring to look at the wall. Unwilling to admit that maybe…maybe he’s stronger than he knows. And that maybe it has something to do with the secrets buried inside of him.

He keeps his features neutral as he listens to Clayton recite the location of his business acquaintance. It’s all unnecessary. Brannon knows the Burrows like the back of his hand. He has spent years roaming the streets as a child. He can’t remember many specific memories, like whether or not he still has family left, but his knowledge of the outer ring of the City hasn’t faded. He still knows all the areas that are better to be avoided, and the places where you can earn the most money as a street urchin. It’s like instinct. But he doesn’t say any of this to the old blacksmith, because he feels like he’s not able to handle questions about his childhood at the moment. He’s not able to handle any questions right now. He just needs to get out. Get as far away from the smithy, that crack in the wall and everything else.

Clayton hands over the burlap sack with tools and seconds later Brannon is over the threshold, breathing in the late afternoon air. It feels like an enormous relief to be outside right now. Some of the tension is already leaving his body as he just stands there for a moment looking up at partially clouded sky, feeling the breeze on his face. He’s aware that people are staring at him as he’s just standing there motionless in the middle of the street, but he doesn’t care. He never cared much about what other people think of him.

All of a sudden a strange feeling creeps up on him that is somehow familiar to him. It’s like the smell of the city in afternoon hours has triggered it. The feeling of being free. To be able to go where he pleases and not being caged by work that is so repetitive and will keep him from living his life to his full potential. He knows that he lived with that mindset once and it hurts him to know that it is no longer the case. But he swears to himself that he will change it, change his own future.

But for now, Brannon reminds himself that he has a job to do. So he slings the burlap sack over his shoulder and sets off down the street.


	3. Part 1 - Chapter 2

Throughout the day, Róshalyn’s urge to claw someone’s eyes out has been growing steadily bigger. With a fake smile plastered on her face she listens to remarks thrown her way all day long. Rude, sexist and more often than not they are about her specific body parts.

Gods, how she hates this. Those disgusting men leering at her all day, while she fills their mugs with ale and wipes off tables in this rotting and old tavern. How they drink and gamble their money away, while they have hungry families waiting for them at home to be fed. Despicable. No wonder the Burrows are filled with impoverished people.

From the corner of her eye she can see the inn owner keep a close watch on her. The beady eyes in his leering face are always on her. Radford has done that since the first day she came to work for him. A day she still regrets with her whole being. But she doesn’t have any other choice. She can’t go back…will never go back _there._

No. Don’t think about it, she reminds herself. Just work hard and make enough money to get out of here.

She gathers some more empty pints and shudders when another hand touches the bare part of her leg. She wants to scream, wants to beat the hell out the vile men trying to touch her every time she walks past their tables. But all day long Radford is watching her like a hawk. Like he knows she’s just inches away from letting her temper slip, and is already looking forward to the punishment he’s going to deal her.

So Róshalyn wears her skirts hitched up to her thighs to show bare leg, like he told her. And wears an undershirt under her bodice that is cut low enough to spark the imagination. She has always preferred wearing pants over skirts and dresses. Wearing this she feels like nothing more than a common whore.

But anything is better than being an actual whore… It doesn’t matter how far away she’s pushing her experiences, they always manage to claw a way back into her consciousness.

To escape for a moment Róshalyn takes the dirty glasses into the kitchen and exhales deeply at the short respite from all the eyes constantly watching her. Then breaths in slowly to gather her thoughts.

Ever since…the accident she’s had trouble calming her mind. It feels like everything is a jumbled mess and she has to keep sorting through her left over memories. And the dreams. Gods, the dreams are haunting her every night. Wolves. It’s all she sees.

She has to grab on to the edge of the table to remain standing. No wonder they thought she was actually crazy. All the signs are there. But she had to get out of there. That asylum they put her in, after the hospital. She grabs the table tighter, her knuckles turning white. Rage floods her when she thinks about all things they were going to do to her there. In that quiet and cold cell they called a room.

Róshalyn shakes her head trying to get rid of the horrible flashbacks. Tears threaten to spill, but she refuses to give into it. Again she inhales deeply, to calm herself down.

Then with a start she turns around to find Radford standing on the threshold wearing a wicked expression on his face. She heard about his reputation. Heard it from patrons, but also from others on the street. The whispers behind his back. The tall, dark haired man standing in front of her is not a good man. If the rumours that Róshalyn heard are all true, he may even have the deaths of some beggars on his conscience. And not to mention his reputation with women.

Róshalyn takes a step back, grabbing a serving tray from the table half to pretend that she’s working, but more to have some sort of protection. So far Radford has not laid a finger on her, but she feels it could change at any moment.

He doesn’t say anything to her, only looks at her with that smile that she detests. It’s filled with lust and his dark eyes rove over her body like they’ve done so many times already since she arrived. It makes her skin crawl.

But Róshalyn doesn’t show any emotion but boredom on her face. She refuses to give him any satisfaction. Forcing confidence into her movements she crosses the kitchen and walks past Radford, fully intent on ignoring him.

But he grabs her by her upper arm, his fingers like a vice, and pulls her towards his body. All Róshalyn’s instincts are on high alert immediately but she forces herself to stay calm. Even as her body brushes against his and he leans towards her, his breath touching her bare neck. This close he smells even worse and Róshalyn can’t help but try to pull away in reflex. Radford just grabs her tighter and strokes his free hand almost gently down her throat making every hair stand on end.

“My costumers are in need of _more_ services,” he says, his voice dripping with barely disguised greediness, “And I think you are the perfect woman to offer it.” His fingers keep stroking her, like he can no longer keep it in.

Róshalyn expected this for a while, but it still provokes a shudder down her spine. No more, she swore after escaping the asylum. She will never let herself be used like that.

She turns her head slowly, her green eyes meeting Radford’s. For a second she makes him think like she’s going to agree, then she whispers in a sensual voice: “If you want me to remain working for you, never say something that to me again.” Radford’s eyes widen in surprise as she puts her free hand on his wrist and pulls it from her arm with more strength than she knew she possessed.

“You need me”, she continues, “Without me, you wouldn’t have half the patrons you have now.”

When she lets his wrist go, bruises are forming there to her surprise and she can see in Radford’s eyes that he can barely contain his anger. She’s towing the line, she knows it. Now is the moment to escape to the safety of the common room. Before her mask of indifference slips. Before Radford does something to her that she can’t talk herself out of. So she steps past him not looking back and lets him stew in his anger.

As the rest of the day goes on Róshalyn tries to keep her mind on her work, but it proves hard. Her thoughts keep going back to the bruises on Radford’s wrist. She didn’t mean that. Although she hates the man with all that’s within her, and it gives her satisfaction that she hurt him, she didn’t mean to do it. Where did it come from? The unexpected strength? Or was it just fuelled by her rage at his remark? Questions that remain unanswered even as she replays the whole encounter over and over in her fractured mind.

She wishes she could ask someone, anyone what is going on with her. But she’s all alone in this. How she misses…misses what exactly? It’s like there is this emptiness inside of her that used to be filled. But the more she tries to think about it, the further it slips away. It’s always just out of reach like so many other things in her head lately.

Róshalyn wants to scream in frustration, wants to let all her bottled up emotions out. Be as she throws a quick look over her shoulder, Radford is still there. Watching her again. Looking to all the world like nothing ever happened. But she can see the anger that is still smouldering in his eyes. Now is not the time for an emotional break down, she has to keep up her mask of pretence. The one she’s had on ever since she woke up in the hospital after that damn accident. But it’s wearing her down fast, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can keep this up.


	4. Part 1 - Chapter 3

By the time Brannon has reached the Burrows the sun is close to setting already. He’s been walking for about forty minutes and the burlap sack with tools he’s carrying is starting to get heavy. The friend who’s address has been given to him doesn’t live too deep into the Burrows. Not too close to the poorest of the poor, but still a fair walk from the smithy. The Burrows are very different from the pipes. Very wide and stretched and filled with small houses that sometimes have barely more than one room. Often they’re occupied with entire families. But there are also those who can manage. Who don’t have much, but it’s enough. Like he did.

Savouring the freedom of being outside Brannon sets a pace that will give him enough time to bring a little peace to his mind. He passes many small market places and shops where people are just packing up their goods. Going home to their families, hopefully with enough money to make it to the next day.

Brannon still remembers vaguely how every night when his parents came home, they would either have enough food to have  a proper meal, of they would have scraps. But they always managed in the end, until that one day… When his parents didn’t come home at all. And Brannon never saw them again. He can’t remember much of the details though. As if those are also far away, just out of reach. Like so many other of his memories.

Without much trouble Brannon navigates the streets, that by now are bustling with people going to and from. Many have lined faces and grim expressions from days, months and years of hard labour. They don’t spare him a single glance, too preoccupied with their own troubles. The only people who look happy are some children playing on the street, with their hand crafted ball.

Brannon follows their movements for a moment, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. He remembers this. Playing on the streets, forgetting the troubles of home for a moment. As he stands there, watching those kids play their game, he feels that emptiness again. That feeling that some part of him is missing. Brannon shakes his head, trying to clear out the thoughts and resumes walking.

It doesn’t take him much longer to find the house of Clayton’s friend, and by then the sun has almost entirely set. The house is a normal place, considering he’s living in the Burrows. When he knocks on the door he’s greeted by a man who is pure business. No unnecessary questions asked, and no unneeded ceremony. Brannon can see why the old blacksmith calls this man a friend. They are pretty much cut from the same cloth.

Brannon hands over the tools and receives a pouch with money in return, and as easy as that their business is over. But when he walks away the man calls after him.

“Boy!”

Brannon turns, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Be careful out there. There’s word that people are disappearin’ of the streets after sundown.”

“what? How?” Brannon asks.

“Dunno. Just heard the rumours.”

The man doesn’t look like he knows any more than that. Or doesn’t want to know more. Having done his duty he shuts his door, without saying anything more.

“ Thanks for the warning.” Brannon mutters.

This part of the city has never been the safest place, but when word is spreading about people disappearing it must be worse than usual. And although Brannon’s curiosity is awakened, he can’t afford asking more questions. Clayton will expect him back in not too long.

As he starts his road back to the smithy he does notice he’s more on his guard than usual. The warning has struck a chord, and though Brannon is confident he would be able to defend himself should something happen, there’s still an uneasiness creeping up on him.

The shadows are lengthening and now that the sun has fully set, the streets are almost empty once again. The only people still outside are those who don’t have a home, or those who are avoiding their homes. The latter are mostly drunks.

Brannon quickens his pace, a sudden urge to get of these streets as soon as possible filing him. All the while more questions form about the people that have disappeared. Who were they? Do they have something in common? He knows the city guards won't care to start an investigation. The Burrows are not important enough for that in their eyes. But there must be something behind it all.

Lost in thought he keeps walking, not noticing that he’s taking a wrong turn that leads him on a detour. When he finally does realize, it takes him a moment to figure out where ended up. The road he’s currently taking, opens up to a square a few yards ahead. There he can better orientate himself.

There are only a few lanterns lighting up the square, which gives it quite a gloomy atmosphere. In the middle there’s a fountain that looks like it hasn’t been used for a long time. The surrounding shops are all closed. The only open door emitting a faint light is a tavern. Just as all the other buildings it looks old and like it barely remains standing. The wood is rotten in many places and the sign with the name is barely readable due to a thick layer of dust. As Brannon takes a few steps closer he can make out the name. ‘The Wanderers Tavern’ the sign reads and it sounds vaguely familiar to him.

Outside there are a few men seated on benches who give of a distinct air of being drunk, roaring with laughter and waving their empty beer mugs. Bragging about their mighty deeds no doubt.

Brannon is about to turn away and continue on his way home, when a girl steps over the threshold of the tavern, carrying a serving tray. No, he corrects himself. Not a girl, a young woman that can’t be much younger than him.

For a moment he just stares at her, taking in her appearance. Her thick wavy hair is exactly the same shade of brown as his own, and she wears it in a braid that reaches just past her middle. Her red skirts are hitched up and show more leg than she can possible be comfortable with. As he watches her carry her serving tray gracefully Brannon notices that she is in fact very beautiful, in a strange, almost wild sort of way.

And he is not the only one who has noticed her looks. As she walks past the men sitting in front of the tavern, they roar and gesture her to come closes, some of them patting their laps as if to invite her. She ignores them and deftly avoids some hands reaching for her as she gathers empty mugs.

Brannon suddenly realises that it must look strange the way he is just standing there and staring from a distance. So he looks away, sighing as he runs a hand through his hair. He should continue on his way back. Tomorrow will be another long day in the smithy and since sleep comes so rarely to him these days… But something pulls his gaze again to the young woman at the tavern. He can’t put his finger on it, but somehow he feels like he has seen her before. Somewhere. It might even have been in a dream.

So Brannon looks again and this time she looks back.

Their eyes meet and for a second it feels like time stands still and everything else is blurred.

Her eyes are forest green and edged with gold, just like his, but how he can see this from a distance he doesn’t know. All he knows in that moment is that he knows her. Knows her better than anyone else. And that she knows him. There is a familiarity between them that transcends a normal bond. He barely has time to process this however, as suddenly a searing pain slams into his mind and his knees buckle.

He crashes to his knees, clutching his head, willing the pain to stop. He can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips as images flash before him, but he’s unable to make sense of it. The stabbing pain is threatening to overwhelm him.

He feels like he's back in the House of Healing before he woke up after the accident. It’s the same pain and sense of being lost that he experienced there. But in between it all there is a wildness that feels like an old friend.

For a few precious seconds, as he embraces the unrestrained sense of freedom, the pain disappears to the background and he has a sudden urge to run.

He runs, as far away from the square as he can, the echo of his footsteps sounding harsh in the quiet of the night. He doesn’t know where he's going, doesn’t care. As long as it is away from her. Away from whatever brought the memories up to the surface too fast. He runs until the pain is back and it all comes crashing down again. Stumbling he grabs hold the stone from the closest building and sinks down until the only thing that keeps him somewhat bound to reality is the cold wall against his back.

Slowly he rides out the pain, until the agonizing stabbing has ebbed away and all that is left is a lingering headache. For a while Brannon remains there, his eyes closed, trying to get as much relief as he can for his head from the cool stone that he’s pressed against.

He doesn't know how long he's sitting there, though it feels like hours to him. When he finally looks up he realises that in his blind run he has come all the way back to the smithy. How he hasn't noticed that is also beyond his comprehending.

Even after the pain has left he sits there, just savouring the cool night air and the clarity it temporarily grants him, before he ultimately has to gather his strength and get up.

Clayton doesn't say anything as Brannon hands him the money. Doesn't mention the words he spoke earlier or the haunted look that seems worse than in the morning. He doesn't want to, or doesn't know how. And it doesn't matter to Brannon. He knows he's slowly spiralling, and he is starting to embrace it.

 

That night Brannon dreams again. He’s walking. Tall trees surround him and the green leaves of summer are starting to give way to the orange and red of autumn, giving it a warm glow. The forest isn’t new to him, he’s been here before countless other times. Although he doesn’t remember when.

This time something is different though. His footsteps are more silent. The breeze stirring the leaves bring a mixture of smells his human senses would not have been able to pick up. His hearing is sharper. All his senses are more refined. He can smell the squirrel scurrying up the tree next to him and hear the caterpillar eating his food. See the tiny detail in the flowers. It doesn’t overwhelm him. It feels natural, like it is supposed to be this way. He walks, with no goal in mind, but it’s like instinctively he knows where to go, what direction to take.

And as he looks up…the wolves. He can see their shapes moving through the trees, keeping up with him. They look at him from a distance, their eyes shimmering. Keeping a close watch on him. Like the always do. Several ones, all with different coloured furs. The copper coloured one, whom he knows is a female, always seems the most curious. The dark grey one who is the most wary of him. The white one, who is bigger than all of them and the most protective, warning the others when he thinks they come too close. And more who stay further away, hidden between the underbrush, nothing more than shapes to him. They always watch him.

He stops his walking and instead of following the path he studies the wolves. But this time they don’t move away when he tries to come closer. This time they stay motionless, just keeping their too human looking eyes on him.

So Brannon takes another step forward, and another, carefully, not taking his eyes of the wolves. They follow his movements, but don’t react. He kneels on the forest floor, making little noise as his body touches the fallen leaves, watching, waiting as the wolves circle him. Slowly, checking him out. They sniff and smell him, but don’t come any closer. The copper coloured one is the first who dares to approach him, taking quiet steps toward him.

He makes eye contact. Her eyes are a beautiful russet colour that match her copper fur. She comes closer, softly touching his knee with her nose. It sends a tingle through his body, from his knees all the way to the crown of his head. But when he tentatively reaches out a hand she reverts her head, casting her russet eyes to the side in what Brannon swears looks like surprise, like someone interrupted their moment. He follows her gaze to the trees around him, trying to see what she sees.

There's another wolf, barely visible between the trees with her dark brown fur. Only the lighter patches on her face and breast give her away. The others don't seem to pay any attention to the she-wolf, almost like they don’t notice her presence except for the copper one, but Brannon feels strangely drawn to her. She feels different to him, not as strange and mysterious as the other wolves, more familiar. More _human._

When he makes a move to get closer to the her, the copper coloured one suddenly reacts. Jumping between him and the hidden wolf as if to block his vision of her. She snarls at him, baring her canines, all the curiosity and gentleness from earlier gone. Brannon falls back, surprised by her sudden change of demeanour. The wolves have never scared him, but now unease starts to creep up on him. He scrambles back, trying to put some distance between himself and the copper wolf as she keeps growling at him, effectively keeping him away from the mysterious she-wolf. When he casts a look in the direction of the brown one he doesn’t see her anymore and the copper one is quick to demand all his attention.

The snarls and hisses come from low in her throat as she stalks closer to Brannon and he stops moving. They stare each other down, neither of them willing to give an inch.

And then, faster than even Brannon's enhanced senses can follow, she attacks. Snapping her strong jaws shut around his wrist and piercing his skin.

 

With a scream of pain Brannon jolts awake, breathing hard. His heart is pounding in his chest and unconsciously he raises a shaking arm, his eyes going to his wrist. He looks for the bite marks that he feels should be there, but there is nothing. Nothing but a faint phantom pain from his dream.  He struggles to get his breathing under control, to calm his raw nerves down.

This dream was different from the other ones. Until now the wolves have only watched him, never interacted. It may have been just a dream, but Brannon can't shake the feeling that this means something new. That he's at the threshold of something that he can't comprehend yet.

As he lays back down he mulls his dream over. Already it’s fading to the background. If he tries to recall specific parts he can only remember his feelings and vague images. But the copper coloured wolf…there’s something about her that sticks to the forefront of his mind. She felt so real to him. He can still imagine what the touch of her nose to his knee felt like, the sensation it send through him. He wonders why she attacked him. Why she had the sudden change in her behaviour. Almost like she was keeping him from something, protecting something, but he can’t remember what. Sleep doesn't come to him again that night.


	5. Part 1 - Chapter 4

When morning dawns Brannon finds himself sitting at the table in the common room, listlessly moving a piece of bread around on his plate. There are still embers burning in the hearth, illuminating the wooden room. The window shutters are closed, keeping the upcoming sun out and giving the room a gloomy feeling. He’s staring at nothing in particular, still thinking about his strange dreams as Clayton walks in. The blacksmith casts a look around, surprise passing over his face.

Brannon is never the first one awake. He rather delays breakfast as long as possible simply to avoid talking to Clayton about anything other than smithing. The fact that he is sitting here must be a strange sight to the man. He probably looks even worse than yesterday. After he woke up from his dream he hasn’t slept again, instead mulling over all the dreams that he’s had so far. He knows the exhaustion is showing on his face, and he doesn’t have the energy to hide it.

Clayton seems to think his early presence is an invitation to talk, because he sits himself down and crosses his arms.

“You look horrible.”

Brannon huffs at that without looking up and doesn’t say anything, so Clayton goes on,

“You’re not worth much to me if you’re going to fall over as soon as I hand you a hammer.”

Brannon raises his head and looks at the blacksmith, “I’m not going to fall over.” he bites out and starts to get up. But Clayton holds his gaze.

“No? Last night I wasn’t so sure.”

There’s worry etched into the blacksmiths face. Worry for him. But mentioning last night is a wrong move on Clayton’s part. He doesn’t need any pity. Brannon can feel his temper rising to the surface.

“Last night is none of your business.” He fails to keep his voice entirely level.

He sees Clayton’s tighten his hands into fists in response, in an attempt to control his anger. Then takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before speaking his next words with barely concealed exasperation.

“Then I guess it’s also none of my business that you woke up screaming again in the middle of the night.”

Gods, does this man not know when to quit? Brannon has had his fill of prodding questions.

“You’re damn right it isn’t!” he growls, actually getting up this time. The air in the room is tense with held back anger. Both from him and Clayton. Brannon turns, hiding his face from the blacksmith, as he tries to push the feelings down, down. Get a grip,  he tells himself. Get a grip or bad things will happen again. So far feeling anything has only brought him trouble.

In a flash he remembers the wall from the last time he let his temper slip. The crack that’s still there. He saw it last night.

He brings his hands to his forehead, willing the thoughts away as he takes shaking breaths. Seconds pass by as Brannon is trying to keep all his bottled-up emotions under control.

The stool behind him creaks as Clayton gets up. Good, he thinks. Leave this room and get to work. Leave me alone. Stay out of all this.

But Clayton doesn’t leave. Instead he walks up to Brannon and grabs his upper arm to turn him back around to face the him.

“I’m trying to help you here, son.”

Brannon doesn't meet his eyes and rips his arm out of Clayton's grip with so much force the blacksmith stumbles  a bit, his eyes going wide for a second. But Brannon is too angry to care.

“I don’t need your help.” He snarls in Clayton’s face, almost animalistic, “And I’m not your son!”

He’s gone too far, he knows it. And he revels in it. Clayton takes a step back, clearly surprised by the ferocity Brannon is showing. He hasn’t seen him like this before. He hasn’t seen Brannon show much emotion at all until now. But then the blacksmith schools his features in a perfectly still mask.

“You’re right.” Clayton says, his voice deadly calm, “You’re not.” then he brings himself closer to Brannon’s again, his body an imposing presence,  “But I did take you in and so far you have a funny way of showing gratitude!”

They stare at each other, Brannon’s breath’s coming in heaving gasps as he has to use all his self-control to keep himself from lunching at the Blacksmith. He wants to tear out the man’s throat. Wants to hurt him, like he’s hurting. Somewhere deep down it scares him, the urges he feels. Like he has no control. Like there’s an animal somewhere in the depths on his being that is just waiting to break out. So he forces himself to keep breathing. In and out until he feels like he has some sort of  command over his own body again. Like ages it seems like that they’re standing there, keeping their eyes locked on each other, neither one of them willing to back down. Eventually the silence weighs on Brannon so much that he manages to force out the question burning on his mind.

“What do you want from me?”

He grounds out the words, his chest still heaving, but there is not as much of a bite to it as before. He watches as Clayton’s demeanour changes from furious to something between worry and understanding.

“Some clarity would be nice.” The blacksmith says, his tone softer now and more calculated.

Brannon feels his angers slowly ebbing away, making room for a weariness that settles deep into his bones. He’s just so tired. Tired of feeling, tired of everything. He just lets Clayton’s next question roll over him, all opposition gone.

“What the hell happened yesterday?” the blacksmith asks, “You looked like a dead man walking.”

Brannon let’s out a choked sound that almost sounds like a chuckle. Of all things.

“That’s the one thing I can’t give you.” He replies, the familiar anger trying to break to the surface again.

“Why not?” There’s something of a challenge in Clayton’s voice. Try me, it says.

Brannon takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm, but he can’t. Whenever his mind goes back to the day before, he feels his control slipping away.

“Because I can’t remember what happened!” He snaps. He sounds crazy. He knows he does. ”I’m getting so fucking tired of this!”

He brings his hands up to his forehead again, feeling a familiar pain form. The rooms seems to close in on him. It’s so small. It’s so dark. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Clayton grabs Brannon’s wrist in an iron grip and pulls it away from his face, then grabs his chin and forces him to look at his eyes. Like a child, Brannon thinks, but it works. It shakes him from his destructive thoughts.

“Bran, calm down.” Clayton says, keeping his eyes locked on Brannon’s. “Take a breath. Then start from the beginning. What do you remember?”

Brannon pulls back and the blacksmith lets his face and wrist go to his relief. Taking several deep breaths to gather his thoughts, he rubs his face before trying to put the events of yesterday into words.

“I..I remember being on my way back.” He starts haltingly, wrecking his brain to remember, “But I took a wrong turn and ended up on some square. After that it’s all a blur.”

He shakes his head, disappointed with himself, that there’s nothing more that he can say.

“You don’t remember coming back here?” Clayton questions calmly. If he thinks any of this is strange he’s very good at hiding it.

“No.”

“And the nightmare?”

Of course the blacksmith heard his scream last night. The neighbouring houses probably heard it too. There’s no denying his bad dreams now.

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” He says, “Not at first.”

Why is he saying this? He doesn’t want to talk about the dreams. Doesn’t want to admit the reality of how mad he’s actually turning, but the words leave his mouth anyway.

“It sure sounded like one.” Clayton remarks, his face clearly urging Brannon to go on. This is the most open he has been with the Blacksmith so far. And maybe, just maybe, it actually feels good to tell someone. To get some of the things on his mind out there.

“I don’t know. Gods, it was so strange.” He sighs, then looks down before muttering, “So real. They were so real.”

In his mind he can still see all the copper wolf as clearly as Clayton in front of him.

“They?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, “I can’t remember much of that either. Just flashes.” A lie. He can remember enough. But Clayton doesn’t need to know that. He can see that the man doesn’t entirely believe him, but he has the decency to not prod him any further.

There’s another heavy silence.

“You’re no use to me today.” The blacksmiths sighs after a while, “I have a sleeping draught in the pantry, take it and catch up on some sleep.”

Brannon wants to objects, wants to argue that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need more sleep. But the truth is that he can barely stand up straight anymore. The little bit of energy he still had an hour ago has been spend on the range of emotions that he has gone through in a span of minutes. That, and the look in Clayton’s eyes broker no objections.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his eyes downcast, his voice a whisper, “For what I said.” And he truly is. He saw the way he scared the blacksmith with his outburst, although the man will probably never admit it.

Clayton doesn’t say anything, just nods at him. But as Brannon turns to leave the room the Blacksmith speaks up.

“You ever use that tone on me again, boy, you will suffer the consequences.”

 

Brannon sleeps for a whole day and night. There are no dreams this time, just a feeling of being adrift on a vast expense of darkness. He wakes up because when he stumbled to his room the day before he forgot to close the shutters and now the morning sun is shining her rays exactly into his face.

He feels better, more rested for sure, but by no means back to his old self. As he lays there, gathering the will to get up and face the company of Clayton, the emptiness in his heart is there to greet him like an old friend. Now that his mind is no longer occupied with his exhaustion he becomes aware that there’s something strange about the feeling. It’s still just out of reach, like his memories, but there’s something…in between. Something he didn’t notice before.

Every time he closes his eyes and tries to focus his mind on his leftover memories it almost feels like there’s a wall. An invisible barrier that feels unnatural.  He’s going mad. He has to be. Either that or something strange is going on that is far beyond him.

They must have done something to him.

The House of Healing. It all started with the House of Healing, Brannon realises with a shock. Something happened there. And if he wants to figure out what is going on with him he needs to find out exactly what happened to him there. What got him there in the first place. Time to ask some questions.

 

 Clayton is not in the house, neither the smithy, but just as Brannon starts to wonder where the man could be, he hears raised voices from outside the building.  Strange. It’s still too early for most people to wake up. And Clayton is not the kind of person to raise his voice. He rather depends on his quiet threats. Quietly Brannon makes his way through the smithy, stepping around tools and other things, careful not to alert whoever they are to his presence.

Pressing his back into the wall next to the front door to stay just out of sight he casts a glance outside. Clayton  is there, looking like he has just woken up and a stranger that looks out of place in the Pipes. They seem to have just finished a lively discussion and now the blacksmith is yelling at another man to get out of his sight and following it up with a litany of swear words that should not be known to man, not caring about the early hour and their neighbours. The man hesitates, but then decides to listen to Clayton and before Brannon can get a good look at him, he disappears around a corner. Dark clothes and a hat, that’s all he could make out. Clayton’s spits on the ground, getting ready to come back in. Brannon steps back from the wall, looking for anything that is able to excuse his current presence this close to the door.

Clayton walks back into the smithy, wearing a frown and scratching his head in annoyance,  and Brannon makes a point of grabbing a bucket to pretend he hasn’t been eavesdropping, but the blacksmith is not that easily fooled.

“Put that bucket down, boy.” He grunts, but there’s no real anger in it.

Brannon takes that as his que to drop all pretence and sets the bucket down.

“Who was that?” he asks. Customers come to the smithy, but this man did not look anything like the type of customers they have.

“No one you need to concern yourself with.”

It seems they’re back to short sentences and gruffness. Maybe asking the questions he needs answers to, will be harder than he thought.

“Get back to work.” The blacksmith says, and pushes past Brannon further into the smithy.

“Clayton.” Brannon says, the name strange on his tongue, this might have been the first time he has actually called the blacksmith by name, “I need to know some things.”

Clayton turns, surprised by the fact Brannon is the first one to talk this time.

“Who I talk to is none of your business-,” he replies, but Brannon cuts him off,

“That’s not what I want to know…well, I do want to know but it’s not what I mean.”

He mentally kicks himself for rambling. Get to the point, Bran. “I need to know about before.” He gestures helplessly with his hand, “About the House of Healing… What they said.”

Clayton studies him, a frown on his face. Unwillingly a memory comes to Brannon .

 

_“I’ll take him.”_

_“The boy is worthless.” the Sisters say, “He is damaged and unlikely_      _to be of any use.”_

_“He has a strong pair of hands, doesn’t he? That’s all I need.”_

_He stares at a dirty wall and listens to what is said about him in a daze. The Sisters protest, but he learns quickly that once Clayton sets his mind to something, there’s no changing it._

_“What’s your name, boy?”_

_He looks up at the big man, but doesn’t say anything. There’s no point to it anyway. He’s useless. Useless. Useless._

_“Look kid,” the big man says, a frown on his harsh face, “I can get you out of here. You look like someone who is used to work. But you have to give me something.”_

_It’s like the blacksmith’s rough voice and his sharply spoken words are the first things that manage to break through the fog._

_“Brannon.” He whispers hoarsely, “My name is Brannon.”_

_The man makes a point of getting the Sisters attention._

_“See?” he says to them, “If he’s smart enough to know his name, he’s smart enough to hold a bucket. He’s coming with me.”_

“What else did the Sisters say about me?” Brannon asks again, his voice almost pleading.

Clayton drags a hand through his short cropped hair, a look of doubt crossing his face. Then he seems to reach a decision.

“They didn’t say much, because there wasn’t much to say.” he says, “You’d been there for about a week after some city guard brought you in, unconscious for the first few days. They took care of your injuries, sustained in an accident. After waking you didn’t talk, barely ate.”

Most of this Brannon already knows, the accident, waking up. The city guard bringing him in is new to him, but not that surprising. He needs more. He needs to know what the accident was.

“That’s not enough.” He says, “Did they say anything about the accident?”

Clayton shakes his head, “The didn’t know any details. I’m sorry, Bran. I’m not sure I can tell you more than this.”

Brannon sinks down on a stool. This whole story sounds so strange to him. How can it be possible that no one knows anything? Isn’t there anyone out in the city who cares what happened to him? Who misses him?

 “I don’t understand any of this.” He mutters in frustration.

Wait a minute. A girl. There was a girl. Or a woman, he doesn’t really know. Doesn’t even know if she was actually there, of that she’s just a figment of his imagination. But it’s worth a try.

“There was someone,” he tells Clayton, “someone who came to see me.”

Clayton brow furrows.

 “The Sisters said that no one came to see you.” He says, but the words come out with the tiniest bit of hesitation.

“They’re lying.” Brannon replies in a cold voice, standing up, “I know there was someone. I remember her.”

“Bran..”

Brannon faces the blacksmith, his hands curled into fists, a look of determination on his face, “There’s something off about this whole thing,” he says, “But this about _me,_ about _my_ life. So I’m going to find out what it is.”

Clayton gives a tense nod, not making any effort to stop him. It puts Brannon of. Does the Blacksmith know more than he lets on as well? He’ll figure that out later. First he going to pay a visit to the House of Healing.


End file.
